


for reconciliation, for catharsis

by ceserabeau



Category: Inception (2010), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Beacon Hills, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, M/M, Stiles and Arthur are brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:09:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beacon Hills is just as Arthur remembers, cold and unwelcoming in the dark of the winter’s evening. He drives through it slowly, following old routes he only half remembers: past the grocery store he worked in during high school, the dentists where he had his braces taken off, the cemetery where his mom was buried many years ago. All these places, they leave a bitter taste in his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for reconciliation, for catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> Picks up vaguely at the end of season 3. Title from Inception. Comes mainly from these graphics/ideas over [here](http://shieldsexual.tumblr.com/tagged/arthur-stilinski) (if anyone with tumblr would like to let them know about this; I don’t have my own or I'd shamelessly promote myself!)

“You should think about coming out here soon.”

Dad’s voice is familiar over the line but something about his tone is off: he sounds like he did when Mom died. It makes Arthur pause. He slowly sets the file in his hand down.

“I’ll try,” Arthur tells him, but he’s already moving to open his laptop.

“Stiles doesn’t talk to me anymore,” Dad says heavily. “Maybe he’ll talk to you.”

Arthur finds the tab for flights, starts searching for the earliest one to San Francisco. “About what?”

Dad hums down the line. “Oh, you know,” he says. “Things. Stuff.”

It makes Arthur snort. “Real helpful, Dad.” He pauses, glancing around the warehouse. There’s no one nearby to overhear him. “Look, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”

There’s a pause, a sigh. “I don’t know,” Dad tells him. “Just – can you come home?”

And that’s the big question, isn’t it? Arthur’s spent years trying to put as much distance between himself and Beacon Hills, to let that part of himself go, but if there’s one thing he’s learnt in the years since he left it’s that sometimes home doesn’t want to let go of you.

“I can be there in a week,” Arthur tells him.

Dad makes a strange noise, something low and sad. “It might be too late by then,” he says quietly.

Arthur pauses in his search. “ _What_? Dad, what are you talking about?”

The silence drags for a long time, long enough that Arthur thinks maybe he’s hung up. Then Dad takes a deep shuddering breath that echoes down the line.

“I need you, kid,” he says and his voice wavers dangerously. “Stiles needs you. Come home.”

“I’ll be on the next flight out.”

“Thank you,” Dad says, and Arthur can hear the relief in his tone. “ _Thank you_. Love you.” And the line goes dead.

Arthur thinks about punching something. He hates the way Dad is so vague these days, how he talks without ever really saying anything. But in the end he books his flight, a red eye out of Charles De Gaulle, and starts stacking his papers up, putting them into his bag.

“Eames,” he yells over his shoulder. “ _Eames_ , where are you?”

Eames appears out of the shadows of the warehouse. “I’m here, darling, no need to shout.”

He strolls over to Arthur’s desk and leans on it, eyes narrowing as he watches Arthur packing up his things. He’s wearing the stupidly ugly shirt Ariadne bought him for Christmas, and Arthur wants to throw his coffee over the paisley just so he doesn’t have to look at it.

“I’m out,” he tells him. “I’ll find you another point man, but I have to go.”

Eames tilts his head, curious. “But we’ve only just started.”

Arthur shrugs. “Can’t be helped. How do you feel about Richardson?”

“He’s fine, but he’s no you.” Eames steps closer to put a gentle hand on Arthur’s arm. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Eames frowns at him, opening his mouth in what Arthur is sure is a question, so he pulls away, shoving his things into his bag. “Don’t worry about it, Eames. Get the job done, okay? Let me know how it goes.”

He hears Eames take a breath. “I do worry,” he says quietly, and his hand reaches out again. “I always worry about you.”

Arthur jerks away sharply. He’s used to Eames flirting with him all the time; he can handle that. But moments like this, where Eames says tender things, kind and gentle things, the things Arthur wants to hear, it always leaves him at a loss for words. 

“It’s fine,” he tells him angrily. “I’m _fine_.”

He tries to fit some files into his bag but his fingers slip, papers fluttering to the floor. He drops down to pick them up and finds his hands are shaking uncontrollably. Eames crouches down next to him, covers Arthur’s hands with his.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “Come on, love, you can tell me.”

Arthur tries to pull away, but Eames has him trapped. “Nothing,” he says again, but he can't quite hide the horrible telltale hitch in his breath.

Eames hears it, of course. “Okay, Arthur,” he says agreeably, fingers stroking over Arthur’s. “Do you need me to come with you?”

The concern in his voice jolts Arthur out of his daze, dragging his hands out of Eames’ grip. “I need you to do your job,” he snaps, and finally collects his papers, stands up and shoves them into the bag.

When he looks back, Eames hasn’t moved, just tilted his head back to stare up at him. His eyes are unreadable. “Anything for you,” he says, and looks away first.

-

Beacon Hills is just as he remembers, cold and unwelcoming in the dark of the winter’s evening. He drives through it slowly, following old routes he only half remembers: past the grocery store he worked at during high school, the dentists where he had his braces taken off, the cemetery where his mom was buried many years ago. All these places, they leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

His street is the same too, and when Arthur finally pulls up at the house it’s like he never left. The lights are on downstairs and Arthur can see Dad moving about, tidying up. It reminds him of high school, when he’d come back from a late night, maybe a study date or lacrosse practice, and Dad would still be waiting up for him, backlit by the lamps in the living room.

The thought makes him pause, lingering across the street until the door opens and Dad is there, peering out at him.

“Are you just going to stand there all night?” he calls in the darkness and Arthur laughs, surprised.

“Coming,” he calls and goes to get his bags.

Inside is familiar too, but warmer, more welcoming. Arthur drops his things in the hallway and goes to look for Dad. He finds him in the kitchen, carefully pouring scotch into two glasses. He barely glances up when Arthur enters, just pushes a glass across the counter for him.

“How was your flight?” he asks as Arthur drops down onto a stool.

“I’ve had better,” Arthur says.

“How far is it from Paris anyway?”

“Too far.” Arthur picks up the glass, swirls the liquid around. “You drinking again?”

Dad snorts. “What, are you my doctor now?”

“No, I’m your son.” Dad flinches a little, caught, but Arthur doesn’t bother pushing it. There are more important things to talk about. “So what the hell is going on? It sounded like someone was dying.”

“Someone did,” Dad says.

There’s a sickening moment where Arthur thinks _Stiles_ , but he knows how Dad looks when someone he loves dies and this isn’t it. Instead he just looks impossibly sad, entirely lost.

“Scott?” he guesses.

He remembers Scott from before, him and Stiles attached at the hip since birth. But Dad shakes his head: “His friend Allison. She was stabbed. Mugging gone wrong.”

Arthur’s heart clenches; that’s no way for a child to die. “Were her and Stiles…?”

“No, no.” Dad makes a noise that could be a laugh. “I don’t think Stiles ever thought of her that way. Her and Scott were together, for a long time. First love and all that. He’s not doing so great either.”

Arthur finally sips his scotch. It burns going down. “Something else happened though, didn’t it? You didn’t ask me to come out here because his friend died.”

Dad shrugs. “There’s other stuff,” he says. “I don’t really understand it myself, but Stiles can explain it to you tomorrow.”

Arthur frowns at him. “What aren’t you telling me, Dad?”

“Stiles has had it rough recently,” Dad says cautiously. “He had a brain scan. The doctor’s, they said it looked like –”

He can’t say it but Arthur knows all the same: frontotemporal dementia, that horrible terrifying demon that they fought once before. Just the thought of it makes Arthur sick to his stomach.

“ _God_ ,” he whispers, scrubbing at his face. “Are you serious?”

Dad’s hand snags around his wrist on the tabletop. “It was a mistake,” he says quietly. “He’s fine.

“Are you sure?” Arthur glances down to find his fingers trembling around the glass. He takes a deep breath to calm the panic vibrating under his skin. “He’s okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, it was a glitch in the system.” Dad’s hand retreats and he takes a long drink. “And after the scan, I had to – I had to take Stiles to Eichen House. For his own protection.”

“A mental hospital?” Arthur lets go of the glass quickly before he accidentally smashes it to the floor. “ _Jesus_ , why would you do that? What the hell happened?”

Dad says nothing, just stares at his drink like the answer is somewhere in it. He looks tired, old beyond his years, and Arthur feels a sudden guilt at not being here for whatever it is that’s made Dad look like that.

“ _Fuck_.” He pushes back from the counter, stool scraping loud and grating over the tiles. “I need a smoke.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to do that?” Dad calls after him as he bangs out through the back door into the yard. “It’s not good for you.”

Arthur stands out in the cold air, letting it burn its way down into his lungs. He has his cigarettes but his lighter is missing, vanished somewhere between Paris and here. _Eames_ , he thinks viciously, _you little shit_. He could go inside to find matches but he can’t quite face Dad just yet.

He settles for punching the wall with a blinding rage instead. Behind him, Dad opens the door and stands silently in the doorway, but Arthur doesn’t stop – can’t, not until his fists ache and he can feel blood trickling down his fingers.

Because here’s the thing about Stiles. There might be ten years between them and sometimes those were ten years too many, but Arthur loves Stiles more than anything in the world. More than his suits, more than his job. He was always their little miracle. Years and years of trying after their parents had Arthur, years of tears, years of fights, until one day Mom came downstairs with a smile brighter than Arthur had ever seen and said _you’re going to be a brother_.

Arthur remembers holding him for the first time, this tiny squirming baby with no hair and huge eyes, and thinking _I’m not going to let anything hurt you_. He’d kept that promise for years, until the military called his name, and then after, when he’d called to check in every week, always searching for a hint of anything wrong in Stiles’ voice.

“Stop,” Dad is saying, his hand landing heavy on Arthur’s shoulder. “C’mon, kid, enough.”

Arthur jerks for a moment, hands coming up reflexively before he remembers where he is, who’s touching him. “Sorry,” he says, finally letting them drop. They hurt, sharp points of pain on his knuckles where the skin is split; he thinks something might be dislocated. “God, Dad, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Dad tells him, turning Arthur so that he can wrap himself around him. “You’re okay.”

Arthur lets his head fall onto Dad’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of the cheap soap he uses. It’s familiar, like coming home, and his breath hiccups in his chest. They lean there for a long moment, until Arthur can find a way to reach up and put his arms around Dad like he used to as a kid.

“How did we get here?” he asks quietly, voice no more than a whisper.

“Well, you took it upon yourself to tear down the wall – with your fists.” Arthur huffs out a laugh against Dad’s shirt, and Dad squeezes him tight. “We’re going to figure this out. We’re Stilinskis, remember?”

“Anything is possible with us,” Arthur parrots back. “Mom always used to say that.”

Above him, Dad nods. “And we need to remember it. You and me and Stiles – we’re going to be fine.”

When Arthur pulls back, he gives Dad his best smile, the one that he keeps for nervous clients, scared colleagues. “Yeah,” he says, trying to put as much conviction into his voice as he can; “We’re going to be fine.”

-

In the morning, when Arthur gets back from his run, sweaty and aching, Stiles is curled up on the couch, head buried in a book. He looks different to how Arthur remembers, older, taller, but more fragile than Arthur has ever seen. It makes his heart ache.

Stiles looks up when Arthur comes in and grins lopsidedly. “Hi,” he says. “Dad told me you were here. You didn’t have to come, you know.”

“I wanted to,” Arthur tells him. “I missed you.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, right.”

That hurts, but Arthur knows it’s no more than he deserves. In those dark days when Mom was fading into nothing and Dad was drowning himself in the bottle, Stiles had clung to Arthur late at night and said _please_ _don’t leave me_ , and Arthur had kissed his head and promised _never_.  Then when all was said and done, Mom six feet under and the Army waiting for him, Arthur had walked out the door and never looked back.

He flops down onto the couch next to Stiles now, mindful of the way Stiles holds himself, body tense and wary. “Dad said there are some things you need to explain,” he starts.

Stiles nods, sets his book down on the table. “Yeah,” he says, “There are. Let’s go upstairs. It’ll be easier if I show you.”

“Show me what?” Arthur asks, but Stiles is already gone, the sound of his footsteps clattering upstairs.

Arthur follows him. The last time he was here Stiles’ bedroom was painted in greens and yellows, bright happy colours. Now it’s blue, melancholy and cold.

“What’s all this?” he asks, peering at the notice board on one wall, covered in photos and pieces of bright red string.

Stiles doesn’t answer, and when Arthur turns to look he’s carefully setting up a chessboard on the desk, the pieces labelled in various colours. Arthur peers at it, at the names. The only ones he recognises are Stiles and Scott.

“You might want to sit down for this,” Stiles tells him, kicking the desk chair out. “It’s a little complicated.”

Arthur holds in his laugh. The very definition of his life right there. “Try me,” he says.

“Well,” Stiles says, looking sheepish. “What do you know about werewolves?”

“Didn’t you dress up as one for Halloween once?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

Of course Arthur remembers it: Stiles, five years old and entirely precocious, going on and on about choosing a scary costume.

“You were terrifying,” he tells Stiles, patting him on the shoulder. When Stiles frowns at him, he laughs. “Okay, okay - what do you want to tell me about werewolves?”

“Um,” and Stiles is cringing already, never a good sign, “What would you say if I told you they were real?”

It takes an hour for him to get through the first bit, through Scott and Allison and hunters and murdering someone’s crazy uncle. It takes another to explain some weird lizard creature and the dead uncle rising from the grave and the pack of power-hungry werewolves. The last bit, the part where Stiles was possessed, _what the everloving fuck_ , by an ancient Japanese demon for months, takes a hell of a lot longer.

At the end of it, Arthur leans back in the chair and watches Stiles carefully. He seems calm enough, steady, but he has a look in his eyes like he’s waiting for Arthur to ask how he’s doing, if he’s okay.

“Did you start doing drugs while I was gone?” Arthur asks instead.

Stiles laughs, long and loud, happier than Arthur has heard him since he got here. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t have time?”

Arthur smiles at him, but he knows it’s not as genuine as he wants it to be. “I can’t tell if you’re telling the truth or not,” he says, eyes on the colourful labels on the board.

“It’s the truth,” Stiles says earnestly. “I swear, Arthur, this isn’t the kind of thing I could make up.”

Arthur doesn’t say the obvious _it so is_ , because out of the two of them Stiles was always the one with the imagination. Instead he fiddles with the queen, turning it this way and that between his fingers, its little blue label flapping aimlessly.

“Dad believes you,” he says finally.

It’s more statement than question but Stiles nods anyway. “Yeah. He’s seen it, a lot of it.” He hesitates, glancing down at Arthur’s hand wrapped around the piece. “I can show you proof too, if that’s what you want. If that’s what you need.”

Arthur just shakes his head. “I trust you,” he says, because he can tell that’s what Stiles is afraid of, that Arthur doesn’t trust him and his mind. “Just, give me some time to wrap my head around it. Then maybe I’ll help you with your bestiary, or whatever that thing is.”

Stiles grins at him, easy and so familiar, and Arthur has a sudden feeling that they’ve had a breakthrough, like maybe they’ve somehow fixed whatever was broken between them. The tension in his chest unknots a little, and he reaches out to touch Stiles’ knee with gentle fingers.

“I’m here for you,” he says, “Whatever you need. But right now, _I_ need a cigarette.”

Stiles laughs again, and it feels good to see him like this, happy and unguarded. “Don’t let Dad catch you,” he tells him. “He’ll give you a lecture. Smoking will kill you, you know.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says with a snort, “I’d be so lucky,” and he goes to find some matches.

-

There’s something easy about being home. It’s been years since he was here but Beacon Hills hasn’t changed, they haven’t changed, not at heart, and it’s easy to slip back into old routines.

Arthur goes for runs in the morning before the sun is up, and when he gets back he eats breakfast with Stiles and tries to cajole Dad into making a healthy lunch. He finds himself doing the stupid things he used to do: turning the cans in the cupboards so their labels face outwards, arranging the books on the shelves in alphabetical order. Stiles makes fun of him for it, so Arthur replaces all of Stiles’ plaid shirts with designer ones just to listen to him yell.

He gets to meet Stiles’ friends, Scott and Lydia and the rest, all of them so young but with the same battle-weary look in their eyes that Arthur knows so well. Scott shows him his wolf, glowing red eyes and bushy sideburns. Arthur just nods curiously and asks questions, but later when Scott's gone, he runs to the bathroom to throw up.

Stiles finds him there, leaning awkwardly in the doorway. “I puked too,” he says casually. “Actually, I cried. Then I puked.”

It makes Arthur snort and drag him down to the cold bathroom floor. “Your life is weird,” he tells him and Stiles just laughs.

After that Arthur starts to settle in, finds himself relaxing more and more, finally comfortable with being back. Of course that’s when real life catches up to him.

It’s a Saturday, pouring rain outside, and Stiles is reading on the couch while Arthur does research remotely for Ariadne’s latest job. He would be there but he’s promised Dad, promised Stiles, and this time he’s not going back on his word.

Outside the rain is coming down hard and so the knock at the door is quiet, muted. Arthur barely looks up from his laptop, just waves a hand vaguely at Stiles to go get it. A minute later his voice echoes down the hallway.

“Arthur,” he calls, “I think it’s for you.”

Arthur follows the sound of his voice, down to the hall, to where the front door stands ajar. Stiles steps back with a bright grin, and when he moves Arthur finally sees who’s there: Eames, soaking wet, that horrendous paisley shirt stuck to his skin so that Arthur can see the muscles of his chest.

“What –” For a moment Arthur is at a loss for words, before the anger suddenly kicks in. “What the _fuck_ are you doing here?

Eames’ smile is entirely too smug for Arthur’s liking. “Hello to you too, darling. I was just in the neighbourhood, thought I’d pop by.

“Bullshit!” Arthur steps forward to stab a finger into Eames’ chest. “How did you find me, Eames?”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Stiles’ mouth working, trying to figure out the name: _Eames_. The real thing just smirks.

“Oh please,” Eames says and his tone is bordering on condescending, “You’re not the only one who can research, Arthur.”

Arthur wants to bang his head against the wall. “What do you want?” he asks wearily.

“Like I said, just popping by.” He slouches against the doorframe, pointing past Arthur to where Stiles is hovering. “You never told me you had a brother.”

Arthur holds in his growl. “With good reason,” he tells him.

Eames just laughs. “Why? He seems delightful. Look at him. He’s like a mini you.”

Stiles snorts ungracefully. “Yeah, _no_.” He slouches against the wall, looking pointedly at Arthur. “Um, I’m not sure what’s happening here or who the hell he is, but Dad is going to be home in twenty minutes so whatever this is needs to move along quickly. Unless you want to explain it to him.”

Arthur cringes. Explaining Eames: that’s one argument he doesn’t want to get into.

It’s as if Eames knows just how difficult it would be, because he leans in to smile at Arthur and says, “Mind if I come in?”

“No,” Arthur tells him bluntly, “Absolutely not,” but Eames has already shouldered his way past and into the hallway.

“What a charming place,” he says, peering at the photos on the walls, the ones of Arthur with his buck teeth and baseball hat. “I can’t believe you’ve never mentioned it before.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Arthur tells him, reaching out to snag Eames’ sleeve to throw him back out. 

Eames just turns into him, stepping in close and sliding a palm into the small of Arthur’s back. “Come now, no need to be so aggressive. I just wanted to see if you were alright.”

This close he smells like the rain outside, fresh and clean, and under it the same cologne he was wearing in Paris, the one which was driving Arthur crazy. It makes him feel the same way now: on edge, uneasy.

“Stop it,” Arthur hisses. “Whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re thinking, just stop.”

“ _Arthur_ ,” Eames replies. He sounds both fond and exasperated. “Just let me in for a minute. Until the rain stops.”

“The rain’s not going to stop,” Arthur tells him, but the heat from Eames’ palm through his shirt takes the edge from his voice. “Please, Eames, you can’t be here, okay? It’s not – I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

Eames grins at him again. “But, darling,” he purrs, “I could be both.”

Behind them Stiles makes a noise like he’s going to puke. “Wow,” he says, “This is getting weird.”

It makes Arthur straighten, pulling away from Eames’ hand. “Yes, exactly. You need to leave. I don’t want to see you again.”

“Arthur,” Eames says, low and suddenly unhappy. “Please.”

“No, Eames.” Arthur shoves at him, pushing him back towards the door. “Go. _Now_.”

For once Eames follows Arthur’s instructions, but when he makes it to the porch he turns to look back at Arthur, and his eyes are dark and surprisingly sad. Then he stomps down the stops and Arthur loses him in the downpour.

He tries not to think about for the rest of the afternoon, the way it feels like there’s something sharp and painful in his chest. It works until Stiles corners him in the kitchen while Arthur’s chopping vegetables for dinner. He leans against the counter and grins smugly.

“So,” he says, drawing out the sound, “What was that all about??”

Arthur throws an onion at him. “Don’t ask,” he tells him. “No, seriously Stiles, don’t ask. It’s for your own safety.”

“My own safety?” Stiles snorts. “Dude, I get almost killed like, twice a week, you can practically set your TiVo by it.”

Arthur sighs. “You really don’t want to know, okay? It’s not exactly legal.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I figured.” He boosts himself up onto the counter, banging his heels against the cupboard like he used to when he was little. “So what is it? Drugs? The mob? Are you an assassin?”

Arthur claps a hand over his mouth. “You’re ridiculous. You really want to know?” Stiles nods silently. “Fine. But you can’t tell Dad.”

Stiles’ mouth moves behind Arthur’s hand and when he takes it away, Stiles says, “I promise, okay? Just tell me.”

So Arthur does. He tells Stiles everything. About the army, their experimental dreamshare programme; about his switch to the opposite side of the law, his work with Cobb and Mal; about Mal’s death, Cobb’s madness, and inception. He leaves Eames out of it entirely.

When he’s finished, Stiles just blinks at him. “Interesting,” he says slowly. Then: “Think you could give me an internship? Dad’s always going on about building my résumé.”

Arthur shoves him off the counter.

-

Eames is Eames, so the next night when Arthur comes back from picking up takeout, he’s sitting at the dining table, drinking a beer with Dad. They both seem relaxed, no guns to be seen, but something about them there together makes Arthur suddenly terrified.

“Eames,” he growls, and both heads snap up in unison. “What part of _no_ did you not get?”

For once, Eames actually looks a little sheepish but it passes quickly. “I just came to drop this off,” he says, and holds up a watch that looks suspiciously like Arthur's. He hadn’t even noticed it was missing.

“ _You_ -” Arthur nearly drops the bag, his hands are shaking so much with anger. “Will you just fuck off.”

“Arthur,” Dad admonishes, “Language.”

Arthur just growls at him too and stomps off towards the kitchen before he can say anything else. Stiles is in there, pulling plates from the cupboards, cutlery from the drawers.

“I tried to stop him,” he says over his shoulder, “But he was very insistent.”

“Yeah, he’s like that.”

Stiles gives him a small smile. “Don’t be mad at him. He’s just checking up on you.”

“He shouldn’t be here. He should be working. _Jesus_.” Arthur scrubs at his eyes tiredly. “And with all the stuff happening here, it’s really not safe for him.”

Stiles makes a noise of agreement. “Maybe not, but I think he can probably take care of himself.”

Arthur knows he’s can. He’s seen Eames fight projections, real-life assailants; on one occasion he witnessed Eames take out a dozen armed men with nothing more than an umbrella. But none of that stops the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“This is going to be a disaster,” he says.

Stiles passes Arthur two of the plates, bumping their shoulders together gently. “Give him a little credit. He’s put up with you for this long; I’m sure he can handle Dad.”

His words settle something in Arthur’s chest, but it doesn’t stop him from setting Eames’ plate down in front of him harder than necessary and levelling a pointed look at him. Eames just smiles innocently.

“So,” Dad says as they’re all tucking in, “Eames was telling me how you work together. In – what was it? – private consulting.”

His tone says he doesn’t believe it for a second, but Arthur shoots Eames a grateful look.

“Yes, for a while now.” Arthur spears a piece of chicken hard enough that sauce splashes onto the tablecloth. “Apparently it’s been long enough that Eames thinks he can invite himself round to have dinner with my family.”

Across the table Dad raises an eyebrow. Eames smirks around his fork. Arthur tries not to bang his head against the table.

He decides to eat in silence, listening instead to Eames and Dad chatting quietly, a deliberately inane conversation that Eames steers carefully away from potentially dangerous topics. It goes on for a while, so long that Arthur feels himself start to relax, settling into the comfortable surroundings of _home_ and _family_ and _Eames_.

Eventually though Eames shoves him plate away. “I should be going,” he tells them. He pushes back the chair and stands, reaching over to shake Dad’s hand. “Thank you for dinner.”

Dad smiles up at him. “No problem at all,” he says. “Do you have a place to stay, Eames?”

“The Motel 6.”

Dad shudders in revulsion. “No way. That place is awful. You’re staying here, with us.”

Arthur holds back his groan. “Dad, he’s a grown man. He can stay wherever he wants.”

“He’s your guest,” Dad snaps. “He shouldn’t be sleeping in a shithole like that.”

 _I didn’t invite him_ , Arthur wants to yell, _I didn’t want him here in the first place_. But Dad is giving him a hard look, one that doesn’t brook argument.

“Fine,” he snaps, pushing up from the table. “But he can take the couch. I’m not giving up my bed.”

“Arthur,” Dad says warningly, but Eames just smiles at him.

“It’s quite alright,” Arthur hears him saying as he heads back to the kitchen. “Anything’s better than that motel.”

Arthur spends too much time on the dishes that Stiles brings him, trying to ignore the conversation he can vaguely hear drifting in from the other room. He busies himself with washing and drying and putting away, and by the time he’s done the downstairs is blessedly quiet. It’s late, Dad in bed and Stiles no doubt playing video games, and Arthur sends up a prayer that Eames is passed out on the couch by now.

No such luck though, because when he creeps down the hallway towards the stairs Eames is lurking there, waiting for him. Arthur tries to dodge him but Eames blocks his way deftly, and eventually Arthur just sighs, gives up.

“What do you want?” he asks quietly, hyper-aware of Stiles and Dad upstairs, probably waiting to eavesdrop.

“Don’t be mad,” Eames says, and just like that Arthur feels the anger rising again.

“Are you kidding me?” he hisses, shoving at Eames. “You invited yourself into my house, to my table.”

Eames shrugs. “I didn’t mean to. I just came to bring the watch back – and snoop a bit.”

It makes Arthur bristle. “This is my family, Eames, not some mark. You don’t get to do that here.”

Eames holds up his hands “I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry.” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll be gone in the morning, if that’s what you want.”

He actually looks apologetic and Arthur finds himself softening. “It’s fine. You’ve probably seen more than enough by now.”

“Not nearly enough,” Eames says, so quietly that Arthur isn’t sure he was meant to hear it. When he glances up Eames is giving him a serious look. “I want to know everything. I want to see where you grew up. I want your dad to get out the baby photos. I want to get to know him and Stiles and everyone else who’s a part of your life.”

He sounds so honest, so earnest that Arthur takes a step back. “Stop,” he tells him. “Stop it. You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?” Eames takes a step closer, and his hand reaches out to brush his fingers against Arthur’s. “You keep pushing me away, Arthur, no matter what I do. I can’t think of any other way to get your attention.”

Arthur snorts. “Forcing your way into my life wasn’t a good choice.”

“If you had a problem with it you could’ve stopped me.” At Arthur’s raised eyebrow, Eames smiles. “I know you,” he says; “I know how hard you can punch.”

Arthur hates him a little for how right he is. Eames started flirting with him thirty seconds after they met, and Arthur never stopped him the way he should have, never tried to get him to back off quite as hard as he could have. He doesn't always regret it, but today is not one of those days.

“Just give me a chance,” Eames is saying, and his hand is curling around Arthur’s now. “Give us a chance.”

Arthur thinks about opening his hand, letting Eames link them together, but in the end he just drags himself from Eames' grip. “This isn’t a romcom, Eames. Just go to sleep.”  

Eames closes his eyes for a long second, then sighs. When he looks back at Arthur, his eyes are dark pools. “Whatever you say, love.”

Arthur thinks he must imagine the flicker of disappointment on Eames’ face as he pushes past him and disappears upstairs.

-

Arthur meets Derek by accident.

He’s in the living room trying to sort through the last of Ariadne’s research when there’s the thump of footsteps from upstairs. Arthur knows for a fact that the only other person in the house, Stiles, is in the kitchen so he grabs his gun and goes to investigate.

In Stiles’ room he finds a guy, younger than him but definitely older than Stiles, sporting a leather jacket and an unhealthy amount of stubble. He seems to be searching for something, shifting through the papers on Stiles’ desk, so Arthur goes in gun first, silent on socked feet. But somehow the guy hears him and spins round the moment Arthur crosses the threshold.

“Who the hell are you?” he growls, levelling Arthur with a hard stare.

He just raises an eyebrow back, not letting the gun waver. “I could ask you the same thing,” he says.

The guy’s eyes narrow. “What are you doing in this house?”

“Again, could ask you the same.”

The guy glares some more, his hands clenching in slow fists at his sides. “Where’s Stiles?” he asks.

“Not in here, obviously.” Arthur clicks the safety off his gun. “Now, tell me who the hell you are before I shoot you in the kneecaps.”

The guy snarls, and Arthur can see his skin shifting like there’s something under the surface trying to get out. He knows what’s coming but it doesn’t make it any easier to watch when the guy’s face changes, his fangs lengthening, eyes glowing a bright blue. Arthur keeps his cool, keeps his hands steady. He can tell the moment the guy realises that he’s not surprised at all.

“Nice try, buddy,” he says, and levels the gun at the guy’s head. “I’m giving you one last chance. Who are you?”

The guy’s face eases back into something human but the claws are still there, hanging by his sides. “You can shoot me but it won’t make a difference. You know about wolves, you know we heal.”

Arthur snorts. “You can heal from a headshot, can you?”

And that’s when Stiles’ footsteps sound on the stairs and he’s charging straight into the room, eyes widening when he sees the situation.

“Jesus, Arthur,” he yells, throwing himself between the two of them, “Put the gun down! What is _wrong_ with you? You can’t just go round shooting people!”

“He broke into the house,” Arthur points out even as he lowers the gun. The guy just growls at him.

Stiles rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, he does that sometimes.” He turns to the guy, reaching out to touch his shoulder gently. “Derek, come on, calm down. It’s fine. Claws away, big guy.”

The guy – Derek – just narrows his eyes at Arthur over Stiles’ shoulder. “Who is he?” he asks as if Arthur isn’t even in the room.

“My brother,” Stiles explains and Derek’s brow furrows.

“Your brother? Since when have you had a brother?”

Stiles rolls his eyes hard enough that even Arthur feels a twinge of pain. “My whole life, dumbass. He just doesn’t live here.”

Derek turns slowly and gives Arthur an appraising look. He doesn’t bother flinching, just lets the man look him over, take in his military stance, the obvious cut of muscles under his clothes. Then, when he’s done, Arthur smiles at him, all teeth.

Derek finally breaks his gaze, turning instead to stare at Stiles. “What’s he doing here?” he asks quietly.

“Came to check up on me,” Stiles says with a shrug. The hand on Derek’s shoulder falls to his wrist, curling around it gently. “I’ll explain later.”

Derek takes a step forward, body curving into Stiles, and Arthur can see the soft look in his eyes, fond, the way he sees Eames look at him sometimes. He twists his arm so that he can wrap a hand around Stiles’ wrist, the two of them holding onto each other like a lifelime.

If Stiles is surprised he doesn’t show it. “I’ll be by later,” he says, pitched low and intimate. “Don’t wait up though, okay?”

Derek opens his mouth to say something but downstairs there’s the sound of a door opening, heavy footsteps on wood, Eames calling out: “Darling, are you here? I got you a present.”

Arthur turns towards the sound instinctively, mind already ticking over Eames what could have possibly gotten him. “I’ll be down in a sec,” he yells back, then cringes at how domestic they sound.

When he turns back Stiles is laughing at him, and Derek is nowhere to be found. At Arthur’s questioning look, Stiles just smiles wearily. “He does that sometimes too.”

Eames is in the kitchen now, banging the cupboards and probably making a mess of things. Arthur thinks he should go check on him, but he has to make sure everything is okay here first.

“Should I be worried that you’re planning on sneaking out?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs. “I’m just going to Derek’s. Nowhere dangerous.”

“Does Dad know?”

“About the sneaking out?” Stiles shrugs again. “Probably, but I think he’s just given up by this point.”

 _Probably true_ , Arthur thinks. “He just wants you to be safe,” he reminds him. “We all do.”

Stiles nods, but his face is sad. “I am safe. At least, I am now. And Derek isn’t a threat, even if he looks like one.”

Arthur frowns at him, but Stiles has always been good at reading people, and bringing out the best in them. If he trusts Derek then Arthur does too.

“I believe you,” he tells him.

Across the room the tight line of Stiles’ back relaxes slightly and he blinks at Arthur, surprised. “Thanks,” he says then looks away, almost embarrassed. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

He goes to push past but Arthur grabs his arm gently. “You know,” he says, “If you wanted to tell me about Derek…”

Stiles laughs, punches him in the arm hard. “Only if you’re going to tell me about Eames,” he says.

-

Eames corners him at the end of his second week staying with them. He’s somehow conned Arthur into making him a sandwich, PB&J to go with Arthur’s chicken, and as Arthur is cutting them in half he sidles up to lean on the counter and says, “I think we need to talk about Stiles.”

“Nope,” Arthur tells him, shoving the sandwich at him. “No. Not happening.”

Eames looks like he wants to reach out but his hands are full of food. “Come now,” he says as he trails Arthur into the dining room. “I mean, look at him. He’d be the most amazing forger. He’s sharp and clever – he’s a hell of a lot more imaginative than you.” Arthur glares as he sets his food down, and Eames laughs softly. “Now, now, relax. I’m not saying you have no imagination.”

“You did once,” Arthur reminds him.

“Bygones,” Eames says flippantly, waving a hand. “He’s brilliant, darling, surely you can see that?”

“Of course I do,” Arthur snaps. “That’s the problem.” He drops down into the chair, leaning forward to bury his face in his hands. “I don’t want Stiles involved, okay? I don’t want him getting hurt.”

As soon as the words come out, he knows Stiles would probably punch him for saying it. It’s so stupid, trying to protect someone who has been to hell and back, who clearly doesn’t need protecting, but it’s instinctive, the remnants of an old promise to a fragile baby in his arms.

The chair creaks as Eames sits down and out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see him leaning forward. His hand creeps up to the back of Arthur’s neck, squeezing tight. “You want to tell me what happened to him? Because I can tell it was serious, love, I’m not blind.”

“It’s complicated.”

Eames huffs out a laugh. “Isn’t it always?”

“Not us complicated, not dreamshare complicated.” Arthur shakes his head, frustrated. “I’m going to sound crazy if I say it out loud.”

“Try me,” Eames says and his hand squeezes gently, reassuringly. When Arthur glances at him, he’s waiting patiently.

“Another time,” he says, and pulls out of Eames’ hold, nodding pointedly at the plates on the table. “Eat your sandwich.”

“Bossy,” Eames mumbles under his breath but he takes a bite anyway. Then, around a mouthful, “Think about Stiles though, will you? If nothing else he deserves a shot.”

Arthur turns away to eat his food. He knows without question that if Stiles really wanted to do this, wanted it enough to try, he could do it. He’d be a terrifying point man, an extraordinary forger. He would be the best of the best, the kind of person that Arthur would love to work with.

But Arthur also knows that there would be no coming back from that, not once the line had been crossed, and as much as Stiles might want to do it, being on the other side of the law is something Dad’s never forgiven Arthur for. He knows that there would be no forgiveness from Dad if he led Stiles down that path too.

-

Stiles is not a good liar. Never has been, never will be. So when he says _I’m fine_ after Arthur catches him having a panic attack in the middle of the night, he knows he’s full of shit.

“Focus on me,” he says, rushing across the room to get his arms around Stiles, hold him steady. “Look on me, Stiles, come on.”

Stiles blinks up at him and his eyes are huge and dark, terrified like he’s actually choking. His chest is heaving dangerously, but when Arthur presses their foreheads together so Stiles can follow the steady in-out of his own breathing it starts to subside.

Minutes, maybe hours later Stiles finally relaxes, slumping forward to rest his head on Arthur’s shoulder.

“I’m okay,” he whispers. “I’m fine, Arthur, you can go back to bed.”

Arthur snorts, pushing him back with a stern look. “Nice try.” He shoves Stiles over so there’s space for him to lie down too. “You’re still thinking about it then.”

Stiles snorts, hand coming up to scrub over his face. “It’s kinda hard not to. My friend got killed. One of my best friends.”

There’s nothing to say to that, not really. Arthur knows what it’s like to lose someone, to lose multiple someones, and there are no words to help patch up the hole it tears in your chest. So instead Arthur slips an arm under Stiles’ neck and pulls him in. For a second Stiles goes still, body tight with tension, but then, slowly, he relaxes into Arthur and rests his head on his chest.

They stay that way for a long time, curled together like they used to as kids. Arthur can hear when Stiles’ breath finally evens out, chest no longer hitching on the inhale, and he slumps against Arthur like his strings have been cut.

Then suddenly, as if the silence is too much for him, he says, “I don’t blame you for leaving.” Arthur goes to sit up but Stiles just wraps himself around him like an octopus and forces him still. “I get it. You didn’t really belong here. You never fit it. You were always so much more than this.”

“So are you.”

The corner of Stiles’ smile that Arthur can see is disbelieving. “Sure,” he says quietly. “I wanted you to come back, you know? Just once. Just so I could see you and you could hug me. I thought it would make it all okay again.”

There’s a lump in Arthur’s throat and he has to swallow around it a few times before he can make the words come.

“When I was here that time I couldn’t breathe,” he admits. “Everything was so suffocating. I had to get away. And then after – I was trying to protect you and Dad. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Stiles nods against his chest. “I know. I’ve always known. I just – I wish you’d been here.”

“I wish I had too,” he says into Stiles’ hair. He feels overly exposed, stripped a little too bare for his liking. “I should’ve been here for all of this.”

Stiles shrugs, jostling him a little. “You didn’t know,” he says quietly.

“But I would have,” Arthur tries to say, “If I’d – if I’d been keeping better track of you.”

Stiles’ head comes up and he stares at Arthur with a frown. “I wouldn’t have told you. Even if you’d asked. I only told Dad because there wasn’t any choice.”

“But if I’d been here, I could’ve helped. I could’ve protected you.”

Stiles’ frown deepens. “It’s not your fault,” he says, tone so serious it makes Arthur’s heart ache.

“It’s not yours either,” he says in reply.

And that’s the crux of it right there, the thing that makes Stiles take a shaking breath and drop his head to bury his face in Arthur’s top. Arthur can feel him trembling, his t-shirt growing wet as Stiles sobs softly.

It hurts to see Stiles like this, broken in a way Arthur hasn’t seen since Mom died. His mind is full of what ifs: what if he’d been here, what if he could’ve helped, what if Stiles hadn’t had to go through this alone. But there’s a part of him that knows it’s a two-way street; what if he’d let Stiles in, told him the truth, let him share in Arthur’s fears and hopes and dreams.

 _What a pair we are_ , he thinks, holding Stiles close to him. Both of them so overwhelmed, drowning in their situations, trying their hardest to stay strong, to hold everything together even when they were falling apart.

It would have been so much easier if they hadn’t had to do it quite so alone: the two of them a thousand miles apart but still needing each other, unable to reach out and just ask.

Under his hands Stiles quiets. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and rubs his face across Arthur’s top. “I’ve probably ruined this.”

“Nothing you haven’t done before,” Arthur tells him.

Stiles laughs, reaches up to shove at Arthur’s face. “Shut up,” he says, and settles down, head on Arthur’s chest as he drifts to sleep.

This is how Dad finds them in the morning, curled round each other like children, and when Arthur meets his gaze with a bleary smile he doesn’t imagine the way Dad’s eyes are bright with tears.

-

It’s a Thursday when it all goes to shit. Dad’s working the late shift and Stiles is gone to what he calls a ‘pack bonding night’, so it’s just Arthur and Eames watching Seinfeld reruns and drinking the wine Arthur sent for Dad’s birthday. So of course that’s when three huge guys burst through the window and shower them with glass.

“Do you have a gun?” Eames is yelling as he ducks the shards.

Arthur has a gun. He has several guns, in fact, all of them placed strategically around the room where Dad would never look and Stiles would deem too obvious a hiding spot. However he has no time to go for them because the men are already on them, snarling and yelling.

Arthur ducks a punch, follows it through with a fist to the throat. If the military taught him one thing it’s how to go for the weak spots. The man barely flinches though, instead throwing Arthur across the room so hard he flies into the bookshelf.

The man advances on him and now Arthur can see the shifting features, the fangs and fur, the glowing eyes. _Werewolves_ , he thinks hysterically.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see Eames trying to fight the others, arms swinging wildly, but he’s no match for them. They bear him down onto the floor, and Arthur feels a calm wash over, a sudden surety that if he doesn’t get the gun on the bookshelf behind Dad’s battered copy of _The Godfather_ they’re going to be dead in sixty seconds.

He reaches out blindly, but the man coming towards his just roars, throwing himself forward. His hand wraps around Arthur’s jaw and slams his head back into the bookcase with an echoing crack. Arthur feels it like a wave, the pain radiating through his skull, his bones, his nerves, and he drops to the floor.

The man leans over him, mouth curled in a smug grin. Arthur can see the jut of fangs into his bottom lip.

“Where’s the boy?” he asks, and his voice is deeper than Arthur expected.

“Go fuck yourself,” Arthur tells him, already starting to push himself to his feet. He’s not letting them get to Stiles if he can help it.

The man just pushes him down. “I can force it out of you,” he snarls.

Arthur just laughs. His day job involves getting regularly tortured by homicidal projections. There’s nothing a werewolf can do to him that hasn’t been done before.

“Do your worst,” he says, and passes out when the man kicks him in the face.

-

Somewhere in the distance, Eames’ voice is calling his name, over and over. It gets louder and louder, increasingly annoying, until Arthur finally lets out a low growl at having been woken up.

“Shut up,” he grits out, trying to reach out to smack Eames, wherever he is.

Eames makes an amused sound. “Ah, so you’re alive then.”

“I said shut up,” Arthur repeats, and tries to hit him again. Except this time he can feel the restraints around his wrists, sharp points of pain where the plastic cable ties are digging in too tight, cutting through the skin.

“Don’t struggle, love,” Eames says quietly. “It only makes it worse.”

Arthur blinks himself back to wakefulness and tries to figure out what the hell is going on. His head is pounding. He can feel Eames behind him, pressed back to back, their hands bound together so that Eames’ fingers touch his own as he tests the limits of their bindings. There’s no give in the rope, only more pain, so Arthur relaxes his wrists so he doesn’t do any more damage.

“Where are we?” he asks.

“Couldn’t tell you,” Eames says. “I was passed out –” and for a sickening moment Arthur remembers watching Eames gets pulled down to the floor – “And besides, you used to live here, surely you must have an idea where we could be?”

Arthur finally looks up, looks around. It’s night time and they’re in a house, or what used to be a house and is now a burnt-up shell, charred wood and the deeply ingrained smell of smoke. He knows this place: the old Hale house. Derek’s house. A good place to take your victims, no one around for miles to hear them scream.

Eames’ fingers fold over his gently, squeezing. “You’re shaking,” he says, and Arthur can feel the brush of hair as he turns his head to look at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Arthur says, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, “Nothing at all, Mr. Eames. Other than the fact that we’ve been kidnapped and taken into the middle of the woods to be killed.”

His breath is coming in pants. It feels like there’s something blocking his airways, suffocating him from the inside out. _I’m not Stiles_ , he thinks, _I don’t have panic attacks_ , but the tightness in his chest proves him a liar.

“Relax, Arthur,” Eames says. His head twists frantically, trying to see. “Breathe for me. Come on, if you didn’t die in Prague you can’t die here.”

 _Prague_. Arthur focus on that, on those memories: fleeing through the streets, tripping over uneven cobbles; the pain from the spray of bullets across his back, Eames’ hands the only thing keeping him upright as the ran; passing out in a dingy veterinarian’s office and coming round to Eames’ frantic, desperate face leaning over him.

“You with me?” Eames is asking, fingers tight over Arthur’s. “Please, Arthur, I can’t do this without you.”

“I’m okay,” he finally gets out. His heart and head are pounding in unison, leaving him queasy, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem, love.” Eames’ hands lets go, and Arthur feels a sharp pang of loss. “So what do you think of those guys then? They looked liked werewolves.”

 _Good one_ , Arthur should say, or _very funny, Eames, can’t you be serious for once_ , but the words are trapped in his chest, shoved down by the fear and panic.

Behind him, Eames’ head turns again, searching. “I was joking,” he tells him.

Arthur holds back his sigh. “I’m not.”

“Werewolves,” Eames says flatly. “Are we dreaming? Did you put me under without me noticing?”

Arthur feels his mouth pulling up into a smile, but he knows if he could see it, it would be dry and humourless. “I wish I could say I had.”

“You’re being completely serious, aren’t you?” Eames lets out a burst of laughter, but it’s tinged with hysteria. “When you said it was complicated, I thought you meant drugs or – or – _something_.”

“If only.” Eames is shifting uncomfortably behind him; Arthur can feel the panic rolling off him in waves, the fear, the disbelief. “Don’t freak out,” he tells him. “You can do that later. Right now we need to figure how to get out of here.

“I don’t think the _werewolves_ are going to let us go, darling.”

Arthur sighs, wishing his hands were free so that he could bury his face in them. “Stop,” he commands. “Eames, listen to me. We’re going to be fine. We’re going to get out of here. But if you have a meltdown, I swear to God I’ll kill you myself.”

For once Eames listens, stills. “So what’s your plan?” he asks quietly.

“I’ll let you know when I –”

They both tense as footsteps echo on wood, creaking as someone moves about. Then the door opens and two figures move towards them: the men from before, entirely human this time, both with smirks on their faces.

The one that cracked Arthur’s head crouches down so he’s at eye level with them. He reaches out to touch Arthur’s chin, turning his head to look at him. This close the man is old, tired, with hollow eyes, gaunt cheekbones. He looks human, but Arthur can see the glint of ice-cold blue in his eyes.

“Don’t bother making a plan,” the man says. “You’re not leaving here.”

It sends a sharp stab on unease through Arthur. “What do you want?” he asks, pulling his chin away from the man’s hand.

“From you?” The man’s mouth stretches into a grin, dark and twisted. “Nothing.”

“Then why are we here?” Eames says, finally finding his voice. “If you don’t want anything from us, then kidnapping us was pointless.”

The man laughs. “It wasn’t,” he says. “If you can’t tell me where the boy is, he’s just going to have to come to you.”

Something about his tone, his smile sets Arthur on edge. “What do you want him for?”

“The Nogitsune lives in him, the demon.” The man snarls, eyes glowing. “It killed my pack.”

Arthur struggles against the ropes, the fear running through him again. “I’m sorry about that but the – the demon is gone. Long gone. He’s not a threat to you anymore.”

“And what would you know about that?” the man asks. He narrows his eyes. “Who even are you? What were you doing in his house?” He leans in close, nostrils flaring as he sniffs at Arthur. “You smell like him. Like,” he scents the air again, “Family.”

“Leave him alone,” Eames snaps.

The man laughs again. His hand drags heavy along Arthur’s cheek. “Is this your mate?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking between the two of them. “Do you know what the Nogitsune did to my mate? It killed her. It ripped out her heart in front of me so it could consume my pain. What would you do if I did that to him, hmm?

Eames makes an unhappy noise, twitching against Arthur’s back. Arthur touches their fingers together in warning, in comfort.

“Let’s hope you never have to find out,” Arthur says, and his voice is deadly cold.

The man’s mouth opens, perhaps to laugh again, but his head snaps round sharply. The other man, leaning against the wall, straightens up. They both share a look and disappear in the other room. The door shuts behind them with a thud.

“What’s going on?” Eames asks quietly.

“I don’t know.”

Arthur can hear the sound of voices over the creaking of wood. Then a long, almost eerie silence, before a scream rips through the air, piercing, reverberating through the house. He and Eames flinch at the same time, trying to cover their ears, both hissing as the plastic rips into their skin.

The scream dies away, leaving only a ringing in Arthur’s ears. In the other room the voices are yelling, crying out. Something breaks, crashing to the ground with a thud that vibrates through the floor.

The door slips open, and through it comes someone Arthur recognises, hair like fire even in the darkness: Lydia, creeping towards them. In her hand a knife, glinting dangerously. When she comes close, Arthur can see the splash of blood on her face, along the line of the blade.

“Are you okay?” she asks as she slots it between them to cut the ties.

“Fine,” Arthur tells her. “How did you know where we were?”

She shrugs. “The boys sniffed you out.”

The ropes finally fall away and the pain rushes in, the cuts stinging where the cool night air touches his skin. Eames hisses through his teeth as he feels the same, and when Arthur turns to look he’s gingerly holding his hands close to his chest.

“Come on,” Lydia says. “We need to get you out of here.”

“We can help,” Arthur tells her as they head for the door.

They can; they know how to fight, how to kill. Not against werewolves, that’s for sure, but they’ll probably fare better than a bunch of high schoolers.

“Don’t worry,” Lydia says, and smiles sharply. “They’ve got it covered.”

They emerge into chaos. The two men and the third Arthur remembers from the house are fighting against a terrifyingly familiar group. He recognises Scott, eyes are bright, terrifying red, and right alongside him is Derek, face vicious and angry. There’s a girl with them too, Kira is he remembers rightly, practically dancing with a deadly katana in her hands.

But the person who catches his eye is Stiles, right in the thick of it all, face deadly-calm as he swings a baseball bat. He’s graceful, elegant, something Arthur has never seen him be before, wielding the bat like an extension of his arm the way Arthur would a knife. Before his reach a man goes down, arms curled protectively over its head as Stiles unleashes a torrent of rage upon him.

The words are out before he can think about it: “Stiles,” he yells across the room.

Stiles turns, eyes searching, and when he finds Arthur in the commotion the blank calm lifts. Arthur can see the relief there, the joy, as a smile breaks out across his face.

But behind him he can also see the man rising again, face twisted in a snarl. Arthur opens his mouth to call out in warning but the man’s hands – claws – are already on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles’ face shutters, the calm coming back, and he turns but Derek’s already there, throwing himself onto the man’s back, claws ripping into skin as he drags him down.

“Come on,” Eames hisses, fingers curling warm and tight over Arthur’s shoulder. “We need to get out of here.”

“But Stiles –”

“He’s fine,” Lydia says, shoving him towards Eames, towards the door. “Nothing we haven’t dealt with before. Now _go_!”

Outside the air is colder, crisper, and Arthur takes deep breaths to chase away the panic that still threatens. Behind him there’s the sound of wood breaking, of snarls and roars, and Eames shoves at him frantically to get away from them.

There are cars there, one of them familiar. Stiles’ jeep - or rather, Arthur’s jeep, the one he used to drive to school and to practice and to work, with its worn seats and clutch that always sticks. The key is still in the ignition; _clever boy_ , Arthur thinks vaguely as he twists it and the engine comes to life.

The drive through the woods is silent, Arthur concentrating on navigating the tracks, avoiding the trees that seem to appear out of nowhere. When they finally hit the main road, he glances over at Eames and feels his heart clench.

Eames is leaning against the door, shoulders hunched, head dropped to his chest, eyes fixed on his hands in his lap. They’re clenched in tight fists, white and shaking, and his wrists are a bloody mess. He looks small and weak and terrified.

“Hey,” Arthur says, and stretches out a hand to him, “Eames, c’mere.”

Eames glances up at him through long lashes and in the streetlight he looks strangely beautiful, something magical painted in oranges and yellows. He reaches out cautiously for Arthur’s hand, lets Arthur catch it and drag him across the bench. Here he curls up, head on the sharp jut of Arthur’s shoulder, breath tickling his neck.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asks, voice a whisper in the air.

Eames shakes his head, just tucks himself tighter in to the heat of Arthur’s body. Arthur’s never seen him this quiet, this still. He feels fragile, breakable in a way that isn’t right.

“Do the gears for me?” Arthur asks instead, reaching over to tap the stick. “Try not to mess it up. I know what a bad driver you are.”

He feels more than sees Eames’ smile.

-

In sleep Eames’ face is smooth, skin tanned from time in the California sun and the Mombasa heat before that. His lashes are long, his lips plush, feminine, but the uneven line of his nose attests to fights, to bloody fists and bloodier faces.

It’s nothing Arthur hasn’t seen before, but never this close, never this intimate.

He can’t help reaching out to touch the smooth curve of Eames’ cheek, the sharp stubble along his jaw. Eames’ eyelids flicker, then open to fix Arthur with a sleepy gaze.

“Alright?” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” Arthur breathes. “How are you feeling?”

Eames pulls a face. “Like shit.” He blinks, looking Arthur up and down like he’s taking stock. “But we’re alive. For a second there I thought we weren’t going to make it.”

Arthur laughs. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he says, half joking.

Eames smiles at him, eyes soft. “I wouldn’t want to, love.”

His tone is open, honest; it makes Arthur pull back and Eames’ face shutters quickly. “So,” he says as Arthur sits up, turning away to check his phone. “Werewolves.”

“Yes,” Arthur says wearily. “Stiles will explain it to you. Just – don’t freak out yet, okay?”

Eames snorts. “Bit too late for that.”

It drags a smile from Arthur, something that curls his lips gently. “If it makes you feel any better, I puked,” he says, and feels rewarded when Eames laughs softly.

“I don’t believe you.” There’s a scratching noise as he rubs his face on the pillow like a cat. “The great Arthur puking over werewolves? Not a chance.”

“Glad to know you have such faith in me.”

Eames’ hand snakes out to grab him, wrapping around his wrist. “I do,” he says. “Always. You know that.”

Again, he says it so easily, so sincerely that Arthur has to hold back his flinch. He hates when Eames says these things, all these things that Arthur wants to hear but not like this, not when Eames is only saying it to make him feel better after their near-death experience.

“I’m going to shower,” he says, and pushes off the bed and out the room.

He doesn’t look back.

In the bathroom, the tile is cool and calming beneath his feet. The shower fills the room with steam, the glass wall clouding over, and Arthur strips to feel the heat on his skin. The water drowns out all noise and Arthur is standing there, letting it wash over him when the bathroom door opens with a click.

“Stiles,” he calls out, loud over the roar of water, “Can’t you pee downstairs?”

There’s no answer, so Arthur sticks his head out to find Eames leaning awkwardly against the counter. He smiles, waves; Arthur considers putting his head through the glass.

“What are you doing?” he asks instead, resisting the urge to cover himself up.

Eames shrugs. “Can you blame me for wanting to see you undressed?”

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur growls.

Eames is staring at the floor; if Arthur didn’t know better he’d say he was embarrassed. “So I’m in love with you,” he says.

“What.”

Eames’ eyes flick to his. His face is entirely blank, a carefully constructed façade. “I’m in love with you,” he repeats. “I thought it was probably time to tell you.”

Arthur blinks. He has a vague notion that this is a dream, Eames’ dream, he’s messing with him, he’s really lying on the couch with a needle in his arm, but there’s no way to check. His totem is on the dresser in the bedroom, way out of reach.

“You’re not dreaming, love,” Eames says as if he can read it on Arthur’s face. “I’m telling the truth.”

Instinctively Arthur trusts him; instinctively he doesn’t believe a word of it. He has no way prove if Eames is actually being honest or not, so he ducks his head back under the water to try and clear away the confusion from his brain.

“Now really isn’t a good time, Eames,” he says, voice muffled by the spray.

“And when would be a good time, Arthur, hmm?” Arthur can hear the frustration in Eames’ voice, and beneath that a panic that he’s trying hard to hide. “Would that be before or after we were attacked by fucking _werewolves_?”

Arthur holds back his growl. “Maybe when I’m not naked in the shower.”

Even without seeing it, he knows Eames’ grin is lecherous. “But, darling, that’s the way I like you best.”

“Eames,” Arthur grits out, “ _Please_.”

There’s a long pause, a sigh. When Arthur puts his head back round the glass, Eames has his eyes closed. He looks almost meditative.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and opens his eyes to fix Arthur with a frown. “I just thought it needed to be said. I’ve been in love with you for so long and every time I’m honest with you about, every time I think we’re getting somewhere, you back off. It’s killing me, love. I can’t really take much more of it.”

Arthur has to reach out to steady himself against the wall. There’s a panic rising under his skin; he feels trapped, forced into a corner by Eames’ dark eyes and soft words.

“You don’t mean it,” he says. “You’re just saying that because we nearly died.”

Eames makes a noise of disbelief, staring at Arthur with wild eyes. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” he says quietly.

“Stop it,” Arthur snaps. “You flirt with everything that moves. I’ve seen you hit on a woman with a hunchback, on a blind man – I don’t want to be another notch in your bedpost.”

“You’re not.” Eames shakes his head, pushing off the counter to take a hesitant step towards Arthur. “For Christ’s sake, love, you’re really not.”

“Don’t call me _love_ ,” Arthur hisses.

“I mean it,” Eames tells him, hands coming out imploringly. “I don’t know what I can say or do to convince you. I’m just a boy, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love him.”

Arthur blinks. “I hate that movie,” he says, and the tense look on Eames’ face breaks.

“I know. I remember.”

Arthur remembers too: Ariadne had made them watch Notting Hill, the three of them squashed together on her ratty couch in Montparnasse with several bottles of wine between them, and Arthur had complained, loudly and repeatedly, that it was his least favourite movie of all time.  

“You were really drunk that night, Eames. How do you even remember that?”

“I always remember with you, love. I can’t stop.” Eames is taking steps forward now, steadily moving towards Arthur. “I remember the first time we met and you stabbed me with your fountain pen for messing up your work. I remember when you got drunk in New York and sang _My Heart Will Go On_ at that Korean karaoke place. I remember when you gave us a kick in zero gravity and saved inception.”

He’s close now, close enough to touch, and Arthur is acutely aware of how little he’s wearing. But it doesn’t matter when Eames’ hand curls around his neck, the other around the wet skin of his waist, and he pulls Arthur flush against him.

“Listen,” he says, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Arthur blinks at him. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” Eames says and his tone is fond. “Don’t hit me, okay?”

Then he’s leaning in, putting his mouth on Arthur’s, and it feels right, like something clicking into place. It’s not the clash of teeth that Arthur expected, instead something soft and gentle, tender. This is how Eames kisses his lovers.

When they pull back, Arthur feels punch-drunk, stupid, like someone’s slipped him drugs when he wasn’t looking. Everything has the soft sheen of a dream, out of focus and blurry, so he fixes his eyes on the dark marks spattering Eames’ t-shirt, the wet patches on his sweatpants.

“You’re clothes are getting wet,” he mumbles against Eames’ mouth.

Eames just laughs. “I guess I’d better take them off then,” he says, and reaches to push his sweatpants down.

-

“You’re leaving,” Stiles says.

It’s been a half-formed thought in Arthur head all day, something he’s been vaguely mulling over while he made breakfast and did laundry and tried to convince Eames to stop grabbing his ass whenever he walked past where he’s been watching TV on the couch.

There are no plans, nothing set in stone, not even a vague time or date, but somehow Stiles has read it on his face, in his movements. He’s figured out something that Arthur hasn’t even figured out himself.

 _He’d be the most amazing forger_ , Eames had said, and Arthur can’t help thinking that he was right.

“Maybe,” Arthur tells him. “What gave it away?”

Stiles shrugs. “You made breakfast,” he says. “Sure sign you’re about to do something you’re gonna have to apologise for.”

Arthur takes a deep breath, but for once he can’t think of anything to say. He is probably going to do something that Stiles, and Dad, won’t like. Usually he doesn’t have to deal with the aftermath, but this time it’s happening before he’s even acted.

“You planning on just disappearing?” Stiles asks as he pours himself a glass of juice.

“Can’t exactly tell you where I’m going,” Arthur reminds him.

“Wouldn’t expect you to.” Stiles glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “But a postcard might be nice.”

Arthur punches him in the shoulder, and laughs when Stiles tries to tackle him to the floor.

In the end he and Eames do end up disappearing, sneaking out of the house like teenagers in the middle of the night.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Eames complains as he nimbly avoids the stair that creaks. “We could’ve left at a normal time. Your dad could’ve driven us to the airport.”

“I don’t want him to know where we’re going,” Arthur hisses. He’s busy writing a note for Stiles, one that says _sorry_ and _don’t follow me_ and _I’ll be back soon_. “Now shut up. Stiles is a light sleeper.”

Eames gets the door open almost silently and the night air creeps in, leaving Arthur shivering in his suit. “Oh, Stiles,” he moans; “I didn’t even get to teach him how to shoot.”

“He knows how to shoot,” Arthur tells him, shoving at Eames so he starts carrying the bags down the steps to the street. “Our dad’s the Sherriff, for God’s sake.”

Eames smirks. “Well, yes, but where’s the fun in normal guns?”

Arthur just throws him the keys, grinning when Eames fumbles them. “Come on,” he says, “We need to get moving.”

Eames rolls his eyes, but he goes to the car, starts putting the bags in the trunk. Arthur shuts the door behind him. For once it doesn’t feel like an end, but a beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> So I have this idea that Eames would only call Arthur _darling_ if he was messing with him or trying to get under his skin, but when he was serious or worried or emotional he would call him _love_ instead. Idk whatever, just speaking from my personal experience as a Brit using those words in real life.
> 
> Possibly going to be a second part from Stiles' POV.


End file.
